I Missed You
by MuchTooOld
Summary: John has almost accepted the fact that Sherlock is gone. But at a welcome home party Sherlock strolls back into his life.  John realizes that now he can say all that he wanted to say  someone pointed out I added 2 parts of Sherlock waking up. Sorry :
1. Chapter 1

**For my beloved friend Mickey. To help her with her Sherlock grief. :)**

John sighed as he stepped out of the cab. It had been a few years since he had been in London. Almost three, he realized reflecting on the fact.

His sister Harry had been letting him live with him. It had been strange living with her again. He hardly had spoken a word to her for years and all of a sudden they were living together again. She had called him up a few months after everything had happened and Sherlock had… gone. She said, if you want to get away, my house is free.

And he had taken her up on it. She was oddly understanding of everything. She never asked him about anything or made him talk. But she was there, and it was nice to be around someone who didn't talk about Sherlock all the time.

In fact, the she had only ever mentioned his name once. And he had started the conversation. It had been a few months after he had moved in…

_"I just don't understand," he muttered. He stared at his blog and was astounded by a particularly nasty comment._

_ "Why what?" she said, not taking her eyes off of her book._

_ "Why people would believe, why they would…"_

_ "You said Moriarty was a master at getting inside people's heads. I figure he knows how to get a few gullible people to buy a story."_

_ They were silent for a few minutes after that. _

_ "Harry, why do you believe me?"_

_ She had looked up at him then. "Because you don't believe in bullshit. If you believe in him, I'm just going to assume you're right. Besides, you lived with the man, if anyone knew him, you did."_

Their relationship had improved by leaps and bounds after that. And when he got the call from Mrs. Hudson asking him to come back and live in the flat he still paid for, he was sad to leave her. But he decided it was time for him to go back. Harry was his sister, but 221B was his home.

He looked at his old flat, same as always. Well… almost.

He limped back up to the door and raised his hand to knock on the door. The door swung open before he could even open it. He smiled as Mrs. Hudson pulled him into a hug. For such an old woman, she was rather strong.

"Oh, John, I've missed you so much." He pulled her closer. As much as his relationship with his sister had improved, it had not reached the point where either of them was alright with physical contact. It was something he hadn't realized he missed until that moment.

"I've missed you too." She laughed and pulled away. He was a little pleased and embarrassed to find that she was crying. She took him by the arm and led him up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, I know it's been a while, but I do know the way—"he stopped short when they reached the ungodly tidy living room. In the chairs were Mycroft (at whom he glared), Molly, and Lestrade. They smiled at him.

"Surprise," Mycroft uttered sarcastically.

John was a little taken back by them. Here were faces of friends he hadn't seen in years. He wanted to run away and give them a hug all at once. Well, maybe not Mycroft, but the other two, yes.

"Who…?" he began.

Molly piped up, "It was my idea!"

Molly stood up and came over to him. Little Molly. She seemed different. But maybe he was different… No, no, it was her. She had more confidence now it seemed. She stood up straighter and smiled a bit brighter and looked directly into his eyes and… she wore a wedding ring.

He smiled as she nervously stood before him. "I'm sorry if this seems like too much, but we've just wanted to see you and know how you're doing." She lifted her arms out a little bit, an invitation for another hug. He accepted.

"It's fine, it's fine." She pulled away and looked him in the eyes. "No really, it is," as she saw her doubtful expression. "I'm glad to see you all."

Molly's eyes sparkled a bit and turned to go sit back down.

He stopped her by grabbing her wrist. "Who's the lucky man?" he asked, holding up her left hand to exam it.

She blushed. "Oh, it's—"

"Greg?" John finished for her. Lestrade looked a bit surprised.

"How'd you know?" He didn't seem mad, just a little bit curious.

"Lestrade, he lived with my brother, he was bound to actually learn something." Mycroft said. He seemed different too. John and he hadn't spoken since before Sherlock… Since before. He was quieter now, and he was calmer. It almost made him pity him. Almost.

John looked away from him and stared at his three friends: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. They were all chattering away, trying to make it seem like what they were doing was normal, talking in Baker's street without Sherlock making them all feel like the village idiots or rambling on about tobacco. But he saw that they were like him, still not quite over it. It still hurt.

About an hour after John had arrived; there was a knock at the door. Both John and Mrs. Hudson made a move to go and answer, but before they could, Molly sprang to her feet. "Don't worry you two, just sit down, I've got it!" Before either of them could protest, she was out of the room and at the stairs.

John looked at Lestrade confused. Even Mycroft looked after her, his expression strangely reminiscent of Sherlock when he was working through a problem. His brows were furrowing as he slowly neared a conclusion. John almost laughed. _Mind palace,_ he thought.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled, "What a sweet girl, thinking of my hip. Have I ever told you I'm rather pleased you married her?"

Lestrade grinned, "Almost every day since the wedding."

There was a slight lull in the conversation, through which they heard a snatch of conversation from Molly at the door.

"—they're all going to kill you. Couldn't you have postponed this? Tell them one by one?"

A mumble was her reply. John looked over at Mycroft who had a look of incredulity on his face. "Were we expecting anyone else?" He asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Not that I can think of. Maybe it's one of the neighbors, come to welcome you back."

Mycroft shook his head. "I doubt it. You weren't close with any of them." He said this more to himself than to anyone in the room.

"But then-?" Lestrade froze mid-sentence. John looked at his face. It was a mix between rage, terror, happiness, and awe. Mycroft's was a barely concealed mix of the four. Mrs. Hudson broke the silence by bursting into tears.

John turned around to see what all the fuss was about. When he did, his eyes nearly jumped out of his head. There, towering behind little Molly, was Sherlock, dressed as a homeless man.

Mrs. Hudson jumped up and hugged him, Lestrade started yelling, Mycroft sat with a slight twitch in his eye…

And John couldn't help it. He stood up and made a move towards Sherlock. He took one step and then blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

"—he be all right?" "He should, it's just the shock."

"John, can you hear me? John?"

John slowly opened his eyes. Molly was standing over him taking his pulse, Lestrade looking confused and concerned all at once. Why? He thought. There was a good reason for it, he just couldn't remember. Mrs. Hudson was crying. Mycroft was yelling.

"Wha—" he mumbled.

Molly smiled and rubbed his hand. "You passed out, understandable of course. I tried to get him to be a bit more subtly, but you know how he is."

John squinted, his memories coming back. "How who is?" He was vaguely aware that Mycroft had stopped yelling when someone shushed him.

Sherlock leaned over the back of his chair down at John. "Oh, good, you're awake."

John almost passed out again. There was his best friend. His best friend, who was supposed to have been dead for years, was standing over him. And he had that goddamn look on his face. The we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here face.

John gently pushed Molly away from him. He stood up and walked around the chair until he was face to face with Sherlock. He smiled, "John."

John punched him in the face. He had a few seconds to savor the look of shock on his face before Sherlock fell to the ground unconscious.

Mrs. Hudson gave a little shriek and ran to him. "Oh, John," she tutted, "you can't kill him now that he's back alive."

"Can't I?" John mumbled under his breath.

Lestrade came around to where Mrs. Hudson was making Sherlock more comfortable on the ground. He looked down and smiled, "Nice." He looked over at John. "You're a doctor, how many of those can he take before it's really harmful."

John smiled. Lestrade could be quite funny now that he thought about it. "I don't know. Perhaps we should investigate this further."

Molly rolled her eyes, "Oh, stop it you two. He's had a rough time."

Mycroft, who seemed to be trying to tame some sort of inner rage and failing fantastically, spoke up, "And how would you know, young lady?" He moved across the room and stopped right in front of her. "Because I am intensely curious to know what you happen to know about my dear brother."

Molly pressed her lips together and stared back defiantly. John was curious to see who would win their stare off but Lestrade ended it with, "You should take a few steps back Mr. Holmes unless you would like to join your brother on the floor."

Mycroft glared and stepped back to his chair. He sat down and began to brood. It was scary how alike he and Sherlock really were.

Lestrade came over and put his arm around Molly. He looked down at her, "What do you know?" Molly smiled and shook her head. Lestrade nodded and looked over at Mrs. Hudson and the slowly-regaining conscious Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson was crying softly to herself. "Oh, my boy is back," John heard her whisper. It made him pause. He sometimes forgot that he wasn't the only one that had been hurt when Sherlock died. Well, 'died.'

Mrs. Hudson looked up at him, the biggest smile spreading across her face. "John, dear, he's waking up."

John knelt down beside her and put his arm around her. She put her hand on the side of Sherlock's face and said in a voice filled with happiness and awe, "Oh, Sherlock."

John reached for Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse, looking for something to do as he was just sitting there, feeling awkward.

Sherlock woke up just as his hands reached his wrist.

"John." John's hand tightened around Sherlock's hand. Sherlock returned the pressure. He rolled his eyes and muttered, "Sherlock."


	3. Chapter 3

**To Mikaela, I hope you know your slave-driver ways have kept me up to ungodly hours writing this for you. You better like it. (I hope everyone else reading this likes it too, I just needed to single out my friend who is keeping me on this )**

John and Lestrade had picked Sherlock up by the arms and legs and more or less thrown him onto the couch. All the while Mrs. Hudson had protested, saying they were being "too rough" on the poor boy." John just tuned her out and sat in his favorite chair, drumming his fingers on his cane that he had taken the habit of using again. Across from him was Mycroft, brooding and drumming his fingers on his umbrella. Both men were looking at each other, but neither saw each other. They were both too busy contemplating the various ways they could verbally and physically abuse the unconscious man on the couch for faking his death.

They sat like that while Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson bustled about trying to make Sherlock more comfortable. After five minutes Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "He's waking up!"

John's head whipped around and looked at Sherlock slowly struggling to rise. Mrs. Hudson quickly dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a small bag of peas for him. Molly leaned down and took Sherlock's pulse.

"I'm fine," he murmured. He seemed to be pushing his attendants away, but John saw right through that. Sherlock was never one to stay out of the spotlight. Show-offs tend to hate it out of the spotlight. John chastised himself over the small smile that was threatening to break onto his face. Three years doing God only knows what and he was basically the same man. The thought comforted him for some reason.

"Here dear, put this on your face," Mrs. Hudson gently said and gave him the pea bag. Sherlock gave a small smile and did as she bade. She was practically the _only _person that he ever did obey.

Sherlock sat up on the couch and Lestrade and Molly sat by him. Lestrade had a look of awe and shock on his face, but he seemed happy. "Good God, man. I thought you were dead."

"Well that was the general plan," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. John didn't even try to hide his smile. Again, he was still the same.

"But… But how did you survive? I saw your corpse."

Sherlock had that look on his face. John hated that look. "Sherlock, no one here knows but you, you might as well spit it out," he said from his chair. Sherlock's forehead crinkled as he considered his words.

"Well," Sherlock began in what could only be described as the most condescending tone ever to be uttered by a human before, "It's quite simple really—"

Molly kicked him in the leg and cleared her throat. Sherlock jumped at the abuse. He looked at her, his face riddled in confusion. She just stared at him with a look that screamed "shut up." He looked away and then around the room, searching for a new sentence.

"Luck," he finally blurted out. "Pure chance, remarkable really." Molly stared contentedly in front of her and ignored Lestrade's confused face and Mycroft's anger that was starting to boil out from his chair.

Lestrade looked at Molly and Sherlock, who were both decidedly looking everywhere _but _at each other, and shook his head. "Luck, eh?" he grinned.

Molly turned and smiled at him and grabbed his hand. They looked so happy, so perfect together.

They broke contact a moment later and Molly stood up. She bent over Sherlock and whispered something to him.

"Yes, I _know._" He grumbled as she pulled away. "I'm not an idiot."

Molly let out a small laugh. "Yes, you are."

She looked around the room and said, "Well, you all have a bit of catching up to do and we really should be going." Lestrade looked about ready to protest, but a quick look from Mrs. Hudson silenced him.

"Er… right. We really are very busy, must go home and do… the things that we are busy with."

He got up slowly and started walking towards the door. He paused halfway and walked back to Sherlock. John was a bit surprised that he looked ready to cry. Out of them all he had seemed to be taking Sherlock's miracle the best. He kneeled in front of him and said, "I never doubted you. Well, I did, but never really. It was my job to go, but I didn't want you." Sherlock looked him straight in the eye. His voice caught a little bit when he finished with "I believed in you." Sherlock nodded and gave a small smile.

With that Lestrade and Molly walked out of the room together.

With them gone the room was oddly silent. Mycroft was fuming away and neither John nor Sherlock seemed inclined to speak to one another. Mrs. Hudson was the only one making noise. She had her hand pressed to her lips, but every once and a while a small sob of happiness would escape.

"Well…" Mycroft said slowly. His voice was very level, if you weren't paying close attention, you would have missed the undertone of anger and even more prominent tone of hurt in his voice.

Sherlock gave a cocky smile and responded with, "Well indeed."

Mycroft stood up quickly and marched over to his brother and stood, arms folded. "You pretended to be dead for three years and didn't think that it was worth notifying ANYONE? You left, you left Sherlock. What have you been up to for all this time? Drugs, no doubt." Sherlock glared at him, but allowed him to continue his tirade. "Were you having fun on your little holiday? Did you have fun knowing you could do whatever you liked knowing that your only family member thought you were dead?"

They stared at each other in silence. Then Sherlock said, slowly and deliberately, "Dear brother, I didn't know you cared. I never would have guessed seeing as you're partly to blame for my little fall." Sherlock was good at that, knowing exactly what to say that would cause the most pain.

John almost felt sorry for Mycroft as he leaned back, like he had been physically slapped. But then he remembered that he rather agreed with Sherlock on this point.

Mycroft looked around; looking for support, but none of the other three in his room could be bothered to give it to him. He stood there and just looked down at his feet. "I am sorry," he finally muttered.

Sherlock looked away. A very awkward silence descended upon the room. Mrs. Hudson came forward and said to him, "Maybe it's time for you to go, dear."

"I do believe you're right." Mycroft had regained his composure and allowed Mrs. Hudson to guide him to the door. John thought he heard her say to him, "Sherlock knows you are."

The room was empty save for John and Sherlock. They looked at each other for a moment before they both broke out into huge grins.

"You bastard," John said.

"I know," Sherlock said with a smirk. They both let out a laugh. That laugh seemed to banish the tension of the moment and suddenly the room seemed a little brighter.

"Are you… alright?" Sherlock asked when their laughter died.

John chewed his lip for a moment. He thought about the past three years. He had been so sad, so alone, and so… empty. Right now, he felt fine. He felt happy. It was almost a foreign emotion to him now, but there it was.

He got up and walked towards Sherlock and put his hand on his shoulder. "Welcome home."

Sherlock reached up and put his hand on John's arm. "You too."

They stayed like that for a moment, and then pulled apart. John pulled out the newspaper that Mrs. Hudson had left on the coffee table and sat in his chair and started to read. Sherlock meandered into the hall and called to Mrs. Hudson, "Would you get me a cup of tea?"

From below John grinned as he heard Mrs. Hudson call up, "All right, dear, but don't get used to it. I'm not your housekeeper!"


	4. Chapter 4

The media had a heyday with Sherlock's miraculous return. John was actually amazed at how fast the news got out. He supposed it helped news spread when the dead start going around Scotland Yard and scaring their two least favorite people.

But he was a bit annoyed over how much they were after Sherlock. John had to get his number changed and so did his sister. _Everyone _wanted to know _how. _ That was the big question everyone wanted answered. How?

But Sherlock wasn't inclined to answer. In fact, he gave a few reporters some rather rude responses. Which drove John insane.

"Sherlock, that's not helping," he told him after he told off the woman who had reported on him in the first place.

"Helping what?" he asked with a grin.

They walked down the street in silence for a little bit while John pondered why he happened to love someone who enjoyed making absolutely everything in his life difficult. He finally came to the conclusion that he was in some way mental.

When they got to their flat the two wondered upstairs to where it had magically become messy with Sherlock living in it again. John checked his blog, which had never been more popular, and almost grinned at how many hits it was getting. Sherlock leaned over his shoulder. "What's so entertaining?"

John nearly jumped out of his skin. He hit Sherlock's nose with the back of his head and the two men stood holding their respective injured body parts. "It's just that you've never been more popular?" John said, rubbing his skull. "Maybe you should die more often."

Sherlock actually looked like he was seriously contemplating doing that. John noticed and immediately his body tensed up. Sherlock looked like he didn't even notice the sudden stiffness in his friend's posture.

"Don't. You. Dare." He hissed through his clenched teeth. He couldn't do that again. He was sure that he wouldn't survive if he had to go through another three years of _that. _

Sherlock was down by his side as soon as the words left his mouth. John was clenching the sides of the chair so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.

"John, I was kidding." He put his hand on John's and let it lay there. "Next time I die, it will be for real."

John looked him in the eye and gave an uncomfortable laugh. "It bloody will be." The two friends sat there for another minute or so. Neither of them moved, there was something oddly comforting in being so near each other.

Mrs. Hudson broke the silence. "Boys!"

The two broke apart slowly and Sherlock walked over to the door. "What is it Mrs. Hudson?" he yelled back to her.

"You've got a case!"

The woman who came up was crying. She pleaded the case to Sherlock. After what seemed like hours, he finally accepted. Although, John suspected that Sherlock was interested from the beginning. He just liked to be in control.

When she finally left, Sherlock spun around and looked at John. His eyes were bright with excitement. John was already standing up and heading towards their coats. He handed Sherlock's to him and slid his on quickly.

"I don't understand," John mumbled. "I thought everyone thought you were a fraud."

Sherlock, who was already halfway down the stairs, spun around. "John, I just came back from the dead. People know I'm a genius."

John rolled his eyes and followed his friend to the street.


	5. Chapter 5

John and Sherlock said goodbye to Lestrade and his crew of what Sherlock called "well-meaning idiots." The case had been exhausting. John estimated that he had gotten a grand total of seven hours of sleep over a four day period, literally running across London for twenty hours, and listening Sherlock being alternatively brilliant, petulant, and condescending for the rest.

The two trudged towards the street, where they prayed they would find a cab. Because John would be damned if he spent one more minute in the company of Anderson and Donovan glaring at Sherlock or some starry-eyed new cop asking Sherlock a million questions a minute. Of course Sherlock loved it. He guessed that spending so much time on his own had made him attention starved. Damn him.

Sherlock wearily waved his arm. The two long ago decided that it was Sherlock's responsibility to hail cabs. John was shorter and for some reason cabs took less notice of him.

After a minute or two, a cab finally stopped in front of them. John heaved the door opened and slid inside with Sherlock close behind him.

"221 B, Baker Street," Sherlock mumbled out before the cabbie could ask them where to.

"Well, that was fun." John grumbled under his breath as the cab weaved in and out of London's traffic.

"Mmmm… I'm bored." Sherlock replied. "When's the next case?"

John's eyes flipped wide opened. "You cannot be serious."

Sherlock nodded, "Completely."

John was a bit peeved that Sherlock could already be bored. They hadn't even slept since the last case yet. "How can you possibly be…" he trailed off. Sherlock had slumped very low in his chair and had laid his head on John's shoulder. "Bored." John smiled. Sherlock looked almost normal when he slept. Like if he woke up they wouldn't be talking about how you could tell someone's nationality from a toenail clipping, they'd just talk about normal things.

But John wouldn't want that. He had normal. Normal was boring.

John tried to keep his eyes open the entire way home, but it didn't work out so well.

"Oi!" the cabbie shouted. John jerked awake. He realized that somewhere during the drive home his head had wound up on top of Sherlock's and that somehow their hands were markedly closer than they had been previously.

Sherlock was also awake. If he noticed how close the two were, he didn't comment on it. He simply threw a wad of money at the driver, from his exclamation it was probably much larger than the tab warranted. Pulling John behind him, the two slid out from the cab and somehow managed to enter their flat.

Mrs. Hudson was there in a flurry of greetings and "You look a mess, I'll make some tea," and "You two worry me with all you running," and other such worryings.

Sherlock and John hiked up the staircase and near collapsed when they entered the flat. John fell onto the couch and almost immediately fell asleep.

When John woke up Sherlock was sleeping on his side next to him, his head resting lightly on his knee. Good Lord, he thought, does this man ever eat? His cheekbone poked uncomfortable into his knee and John thought that the blood was being cut off. But he didn't move.

He simply let his head loll back and let the morning light stream over his face. If he was being honest with himself, he was still a _little _bit tired. He could probably go right on back to sleep. And there wasn't a real reason to wake Sherlock up.

So John closed his eyes, placed a hand on top of Sherlock's arm and went back to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

John didn't really know when he knew that he loved Sherlock. Well, he had always loved him; he just didn't know that it was in this way.

Maybe it was when they first met. Perhaps it was when Sherlock showed he was willing to give up government secrets to save him from getting blown up. Or it possibly could have happened over time. Like the whole thing about the frog in a pot of water that had the heat slowly increased on it. He didn't notice that something was different until there wasn't a way out of the situation.

He called Harry about it. He didn't know who else to turn to on this matter. She was the only person he knew who had just woke up one day and found out they were gay.

She was helpful after she stopped laughing (their parents had often used him as an example of a good child, mainly because he was straight, when they were teens). She asked him a lot of questions about how he was feeling, if Sherlock loved him back, and if he was positive that it was love… in that way.

"Harry… I'm positive," he let out a huge sigh. "I don't know what to do."

"You're so smooth when it comes to women," she said, her voice dropping with sarcasm, "Why don't you just transfer some of your skills to your gender?" The line crackled as he waited for her to get that he was serious. She took the hint after a few minutes.

"Well, have you tried telling him?"

"You don't just tell this man things!" he cried exasperatedly.

"From what you've been telling me, that's the only way that you get him to hear anything."

"But—"

She cut him off. "Just tell him. He'll either turn you down in some spectacular dick-like fashion or he'll like you back and tell you in a marvelously douche-baggy way."

"But—"

"If you don't be a man, I will come down there, tell the man myself and then kick you in the nuts on the way out. And I don't really want to do that today, I'm busy."

John furrowed his brow and rubbed a temple in frustration. Why couldn't she be like normal sisters and offer him comfort and love and kind words? "John… I'm waiting for an answer."

"Fine!" he barked.

He could practically see her smug smile through the phone. "Good boy. And you better do it in a timely fashion. I'll check in with that landlady of yours to make sure." With that she hung up.

He threw the cell phone on the kitchen table and stormed into the kitchen, noticed that the flat was irresponsibly clean (Mrs. Hudson's doing no doubt) and that there was nothing to hit, and slumped down into his chair.

He could tell him right when he walked in. But if that turned out badly, that could cause more awkwardness than was sure to come. He placed his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. He could tell him through a note… text. Sherlock didn't like to talk about these things. He didn't like to talk about anything now that he came to think about it. He could tell him over dinner… no. He could… He didn't know what he could do.

Since when did asking men out become more difficult than asking women?

He sat in his armchair for hours waiting for some sort of divine inspiration to fall upon him. None were coming.

"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock bellowed from somewhere below.

Time was running out. He heard his friends argue down below and knew that something had to be done soon. A decision just had to be made. But what to do?

There was some argument. Then Mrs. Hudson laughed and John thought he could hear her something about some biscuits.

Creaking stairs.

John stood up and started to pace.

"John?" Sherlock called.

John squared his shoulders and walked over to the door.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, his voice getting a hint of irritation over the fact he was being ignored.

Good Lord, he thought, I love him. Yes, yes you do, his brain replied, so you best get this done and over with.

Sherlock entered the room, cradling something in his arms.

John walked over to him and balked. Sherlock was holding a tiny black kitten.

"What the hell?" he said staring at the animal.

"I found him in an alley." Sherlock said and walked into the kitchen and placed the kitten on the counter, pulled out some sort of formula from his coat, poured it into a bowl, then leaned over and watched the kitten lap up tiny amounts of the liquid. John wondered if he really believed that was an adequate response to what was happening, or if he was being annoying on purpose.

Sherlock stood up and looked over at him. "John you are being ridiculously serious in the presence of a young cat."

John did not know if that was supposed to be funny or not, but he laughed anyway. Sherlock did that little self-satisfied smirk. John felt a knot in his stomach.

Sherlock turned back to the kitten. This is ridiculous, he told himself, man up and tell him.

But John never got to telling him. He walked over to him and grabbed his shoulder and spun him towards him. He wasn't entirely sure but he had somehow dragged his insanely tall friend down to his level or how he managed to muster up the courage to kiss him.

But he did.

The craziest part of all of this in his opinion was that he was kissing him back.


	7. Chapter 7

**My dearest Mickey, for whom this story was written. I am officially out of ideas for this fic. So it ends now. If you want more stories about this ship or any other, I DEMAND more food. And you know what food I'm talking about. I love you bro. And everyone else reading this, thank you so much **

John would've liked to keep their relationship a bit more secret. He wanted people to gradually get used to it. He needed to get gradually used to it.

But Sherlock had all the subtlety of a hurricane. And so everyone they knew and their dog knew within a week that they were now officially "together together." John really didn't mind. He reprimanded himself silently for thinking that they were ever going to be sneaky about the whole thing. Sherlock was rarely sneaky about things that didn't involve death.

He thought it was nice that no one really had made that big of a deal about it. Except for a couple of police officers that he wasn't too overly-fond of anyway, no one acted like it was something that shouldn't have happened.

Some acted like they had been waiting for this moment ever since they met them. Mrs. Hudson cried when she found out from Harry and hugged them. She was just so happy that her boys had found love, and she was even happier that the love they found wasn't going to make either one leave her. After her initial outburst, she never mentioned it again. She just went and made up Sherlock's bedroom to be a bit more accommodating for two and put the kettle on.

Molly just gave a small smile when Sherlock told her over a corpse. She said she had always had a bit of a feeling, even back when she was in love with him herself. She also said she had just won a bet with her husband.

Lestrade laughed for ten minutes when John told him. He clapped him on the back and told him, "Good on you, mate." He then chuckled as he said that he now owed Molly a getaway in the Bahamas.

Mycroft really didn't say anything. He was calculating how much easier it would be to keep an eye on his brother now that there was someone he trusted in his bed.

The two certain police officers liked to bring it up. But as no one really thought their jokes were that funny, they soon stopped.

John was shocked to find how much better his life functioned now that they were together. Not much changed, as Harry pointed out, they were practically married from the moment they met. But something just felt more right. Maybe it was the little things.

Like giving Sherlock a light peck on the cheek before he rushed off to try and find a clinic to hire him. Or Sherlock grabbing his hands when he was excited and then not letting go. Or when they were just in bed together just lying there, not doing anything (although the nights when they were doing things was good too), just lying beside each other.

Like right now. He could hear Sherlock's somewhat steady breathing close his ear. He was like their cat. He slept curled up and would curl up next to whatever was warm by him. John just happened to be that warm thing.

The night was quiet. No gruesome murders or absurd robberies to solve tonight. Sherlock hated it, but John absolutely loved the peace it gave them. Because when nothing was going on they could be together like this. It made him feel so happy, he was happier now than he had ever been. And he didn't want any wack-job murderer ruining it.

He looked down at Sherlock. He appeared to be asleep. He liked to talk to him when he was asleep. Mainly because there wasn't a risk for some snarky comeback or annoying retort. It was nice to get his feelings out this way, because Sherlock would probably laugh in his face if he said them when they were both awake and conscious.

So he talked. About how he loved him. About how if he ever left again he would personally drag him to hell, kick him repeatedly on the way down, and then hand him over to Satan. About how he wondered if it was all guys he liked or just him. Simple little things like that.

He talked until he was tired. Then he whispered, "God, Sherlock. I missed you."

He felt his eyes droop as sleep slowly stole over him. The world began to grow dark and he felt himself begin to drift off to sleep.

He vaguely felt Sherlock's grip tighten on his shirt and thought he heard him reply, "I missed you too, John."

He'd never know if he imagined this or not. If it was part of a dream or if Sherlock had been awake the whole time. He liked to think it was the latter.


End file.
